


The Exile of D'Epernon

by FreyaLor



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: 17th century politics, Assassins and daggers, M/M, Richelieu POV, office sex too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-11
Updated: 2017-05-11
Packaged: 2018-10-30 16:36:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10880721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreyaLor/pseuds/FreyaLor
Summary: One more letter of exile has dreadful consequences for Richelieu, but sheer luck sometimes has a face.





	The Exile of D'Epernon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [naggie_w](https://archiveofourown.org/users/naggie_w/gifts).



> Fic prompt by Naggie_w, a lovely girl from Japan !  
> "Treville rescuing Armand"  
> \- it's a lighter, easier kind of fic, a bit of a holiday from "As Early Morning Dies", too time-consuming, too soul-eating for me right now.-  
> Also an attempt on Richelieu's first person POV, proving to be much *much* harder than I thought. 
> 
>  
> 
> To submit prompts, comment or find me on Tumblr (Freyalor) !

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

\- “Armand, this man is a war hero.” He grunts, placing both hands on my desk.

 

\- “I know.” I sigh.

 

\- “He fought for this King, and for the two others before him.”

 

-“ _I know._ ”

 

He leans down towards me, looming over my unfinished letter, an angry frown twisting his face, forgetting once more how these things never truly impressed me.

I’m getting on his nerves again, I am quite aware of it. In the last five years, there hasn’t been many days without that, I fear. The State remained the State, its necessities and rules unchanged, and my dear Jean could never tolerate it.

 

-“His son Bernard is married to Louis’s own sister.” He argues, gesturing towards the door. “You just met him this morning, and gave him a very polite salute if I remember well enough!”

-“I have no quarrel against Bernard. I’m only dismissing his father.”

 

-“ **And how do you think Bernard will take that?** ”

 

Must he always _shout_?

 

I hope my exasperated look will be enough, but I have my doubts. Jean always assumes I fail to consider the consequences of my moves, will he ever learn?  Bernard may have joined the Royal family by alliance, he has no influence at the Court. His father, on the other hand, is continuously spreading vexing rumors about the growing authority of the King’s Governors upon taxes and justice. Not that those rumors are false, of course. Every single one of them is true. I named those Governors myself, and placed very specific tasks into their hands, including tax collection and surveillance.

I had several reports concerning the unpleasant consequences of those taxes and trials upon the population, but both income and information are essential to the wars we must prepare.

 

It is all about the preservation of the borders of France.

 

The rules of State are still unchanged.

 

 

 

-“The Duke of Epernon shall be removed.” I state as quietly as I can. “The _grudge_ of his second son is irrelevant to me.”

 

 

One of Jean’s hands hits my desk with a loud bang, and I must lay a finger on my teacup to prevent its fall. I give him the stare I have for a cat that cannot stop chasing its own tail, but he doesn’t even look at me. He’s pacing around me as he has done for five years, growling in frustration:

 

-“For God’s sake, the Duke is more than sixty years old, what threat could he be for you?”

 

-“As you said, he is a war hero. He has the King’s respect, and when he speaks, he is listened to. I will make sure he doesn’t.”

 

Jean freezes in his pacing, his disbelieving stare fixed upon me, and by the furious knitting of his brow I know he thinks I am going to have the old man murdered. Heavens, five years, and he still takes me for a monster sometimes. I raise my hand softly before he shouts some more:

 

\- “I am not killing D’Epernon, Jean. I am merely assigning him to residence in his fortress of Loches.”

 

 

 

He shuts the mouth he had opened with a clicking noise, and drops his gaze for a second.

 

 

He doesn’t seem to know what to say to this, and I must confess I won’t complain. I quietly pick up my quill and finish my letter, folding and sealing it. I call a clerk and send him to lay the paper directly into d’Epernon’s hands.

 

-“Give him two days to move from his apartments and bid his farewell to the King.” I add, and the secretary nods with a bow.

 

 

 

Once the man has left, I get up, lock the door, and move back towards my dear Jean, obviously still struggling with words, hiding his trouble in a very quiet contemplation of the gardens through my windows. I notice his hands clenched tight, his mouth tense, the boiling rage in his pulsing neck. I also notice the way sunlight paints his blue eyes with the hues of mountain lakes. I lay a hand on his shoulder, and he flinches, shrugging it away with a grunt.

I must have winced.

 Strange, how I never could get used to this. His shouting I can bear, but his rejection, after all this time, still hurts deep.

 

 

 

 I draw my own curtain of composure upon the sinking feeling in my stomach, and move on to the next item on my list of things to do before noon. Ah. Write an answer to the Bishop of Angoulême. Where did I put his essay on the duties of Catholic Ministers? I have to rip this piece of nonsense apart to the last sentence.

 

 

-“ D’Epernon is innocent.” Jean’s voice freezes my steps as I walk to the bookshelf. “You are sending him into disgrace for speaking the truth.”

  
Heavens above, here we go again.

 

-“ Everyone speaks his own truth, Jean.” I sigh, shuffling through the part of the shelf where I put books I don’t care about. “D’Epernon is sincere about his reports on the King starving his people, I am just as right about the need for an army to maintain the Habsburgs at bay. I couldn’t care less about the King hearing truths. I care about the King hearing the right kind of truth.”

 

-“ _Yours_ , of course.”

 

His speech is filled with venom, and I feel compelled to turn around, only to jump at the burning look he is giving me over his shoulder. I stand my ground, my mask of serenity holding on, mostly out of pure habit.

 

-“Yes, as a matter of fact.” I state quietly.

 

 

 

But stubborn, wild and headstrong as he is, Jean is everything but stupid, and I know he notices my hands are shaking. Nobody ever notices my hands, that’s why all this bright red silk is for. A diversion from my skin.

Nobody ever notices my hands, except him.

 

 

I wish I could remain as unreadable as I am to any other soul in this country, but I cannot stand the way he can burn the ground beneath my feet. He is so proud, so confident, standing upon the pedestal of his virtues, his merciless eyes burning through me, and I can argue, of course. I can always explain, I can always make him see I am right. I can make him understand it is necessary. But he still has all the virtues of mankind on his side, and the raw sunlight around his solid frame makes me feel corrupt and soiled.

 

I clear my throat, and try to hide my trembling hands into the Bishop’s pointless essay.

 

I pick it up, lay it upon a desk next to me and start turning the pages, summoning my best focused scorn. But I hear him walking to me, and I never can get anything done while that man is in the room.

I don’t look up, watching his shadow push the light away from my book as he stands close. He still smells like old leather, and that wax he uses for his gun. He always had. As I don’t acknowledge his presence, he exhales sharply, and roughly grabs my arm to turn me towards him.

I meet his eyes, expecting disdain and finding none. There is only bitter, tired resignation.

 

-“Promise me your reasons are worthy.”

  
I smile. _I can always make him understand._

-“I swear they are.” I breathe, holding his glare with all the certainties I can gather.

 

 

 

He sighs, his frown receding, but his eyes still narrow and harsh. He can’t seem to let go of my arm, his fingers twitching around my elbow, and I suddenly know what’s coming.

I know Jean. There is so much anger, so much energy constantly rumbling in his veins. There are feelings so intense they sometimes can’t be eased away with words alone. He is, after all, a soldier. His strength hasn’t been forged by promises. It’s made of war and gunpowder.

 

I know what’s coming.

 

After all, for the redemption of my corrupted deeds, being _molested_ a bit is a fair price to pay.

 

I lower my eyes, gently lean against the desk, letting go of the book and gripping his sleeves. I tilt my head to the side, offering my neck, and the insane spark of hunger coming alive in his bright eyes is almost terrifying.

I know what’s coming.

_I welcome it._

 

He growls like an animal and presses himself roughly against me, his mouth devouring my neck, his weight pinning me against the desk with brutal force. I hear books and papers fall on the floor with scattered bangs as he pushes me further down. He grabs my face and kisses me, hard and commanding. It hurts a bit, but I don’t mind, he’ll be so _peaceful_ after it all.

He unbuttons my robes, and he always does it gently, even in his foulest moods. I can always count on his unholy love for those cumbersome cascades of fabric. It takes a while, those are my formal robes, the Dutch ambassador arrives this afternoon. But eventually, he flaps them open wide, and dives into me, his sturdy leather pressed against my skin, his tongue and teeth everywhere, spreading wildfire and pain. He lies on top of me, forcing my knees apart, and our groins meet almost violently. He’s hard, urgent, already panting. It’ll be quick.

He undoes the ties of his pants, no more, and it bothers me a lot, because I’m quite helpless if I can’t access his skin. I suppose that’s the way he wants me.

I don’t mind.

 

He’ll be much gentler after that.

 

His hips still move in slow friction though, and he licks my ear in low groans. He wants it to be good for me, he always does. There has never been a time, even in his darkest angers, when he didn’t.

Well, it has always been good.

 

 

I let out sharp cries of pleasure, because I can’t help it, and, maybe, because he seems to like them a lot. He moans somewhat louder, grabs my hand to lick it until it’s soaked, and guide it downwards. _Oh_. I see. I take a firm hold of him, and do what I do best. His eyes almost roll back as he cries out, his whole body jerking forward. He lets me stroke him slowly, dazed and trembling, and I feel him grow thick and throbbing beneath my fingers.

After a short while, though he looks very tempted to go on like this, he shakes his head, shuddering, and mouths my name, then something with “don’t” in it. He unknots my hand from his shaft, aligns us both and closes our hands around ourselves, God, _yes_.

I am thankful for his steady fingers around mine, because I seem to lose my focus at this point. All I hear is the desk creaking under the plundering of his hips, and my own cries, far too high-pitched for my pride. More papers are ruined, but I don’t think I can open my eyes. He starts calling my name again, his breath shattered, and it means he won’t be long.

 

His rhythm crumble into erratic thrusts, and he buries his face in my neck to shout. I feel my hand wet with semen, and though he already goes limp upon me, I still hold us both firmly, using his warm seed to find my own end, in four slow strokes, and with a whimper I can barely recognize.

 

He whispers a short apology, and I chuckle. You see, I knew you’d be _gentler_ after.

 

I wait for my breathing to ease down, smiling at the small kisses he lays on my cheek. I gesture towards a basin of warm water and a wet cloth near the windows before he cleans ourselves with something of his again. He laughs, a soft, honest sound I could unleash a whole float for.

 

He uses the wet cloth, though it isn’t as warm as I hoped. He tucks himself in quickly, starts closing my robes with deference, and I patiently let him, his usual reward once more well-earned. We kiss again, slower, deeper, he smiles against my lips, and I knew he’d be peaceful after it all.

 

He still frowns as he pulls apart, helping me on my feet with careful moves, and whispers into my hair as he embraces me:

 

 

-“Beware of Bernard still.”

 

 

 

*** 

 

 

 

 

 

Night has fallen on the Royal gardens, and I warm my hands around a cup of herbs. The afternoon has been exhausting. My headaches came back right after dinner, and came back to stay. I found it quite tiresome to explain the rules of French protocol in Dutch to an ambassador who kept on being distracted by the relentless cooing of the Ladies of the Court.

He is said to be handsome.

 _Hah!_ Hardly so.

 

He is too ornate, too pompous, and to speak plainly, unbearably rude.

Besides, I had to push back the constant demands for audiences coming from Bernard d’Epernon. I haven’t even heard a word from his father, who is wiser and of quicker intellect, but his idiotic, hot-blooded son made an insufferable _racket_ about disgrace and cruelty _._ A pathetic waste of energy. I never wrote a letter of exile without full support from the King. There was nothing left to ask audience about.

 

Bernard may have married the King’s sister, but I preside his Council.

People should learn their place.

 

 

Luckily, while the King was in official meeting, each one of these demands had to pass by me. The King didn’t feel a breath of it all. After five to eight refusals, Bernard finally gave up. I think I heard him roar something foul about me in the reception hall, but I can’t say this never happened before.

I can’t even say it doesn’t happen every week.

 

Now, as the vespers have been sung, and the ambassador is in his bedroom, no doubt with a fair representative of the over-perfumed poultry he kept ogling, I grant myself a few moments of silence.

My ears are buzzing, migraine squeezing the life out of me, and my eyes are tired from the constant frown they’re wearing. But the gardens have mercy on me tonight, gently waving under a soft breeze, bringing smells of spices and herbs as a memory of this afternoon’s sunlight. I hear soft chamber music played in the Queen’s apartments two floors above my head, and the low, nostalgic notes soothe my pain.

 

I sent word to Jean to meet me in my apartments soon, in the east wing facing me. If I slide five yards to the right, I may even get a glimpse of his silhouette through the brightly-lit windows of the ground floor as he strides to my door. I hide a smile behind my cup, picturing the handsome sight already. He doesn’t even need to worry about being seen, he always looks so angry, in his gait and in his eyes, that anyone would assume he’s just running to my door to shout at me.

 

Well, to be honest, it is often very true.

 

 

I hear heavy footsteps coming from the left, and I instinctively step back in the shadows of the Queen’s apartments. I huff at my own silliness, because for once, I have nothing to hide. A young, nervous man is approaching, and I think I make out the uniform of the Royal Valets. A message, no doubt.

I smile affably as the man bows down and holds out a sealed envelope to me. He is quite thin, but made of dry muscle and solid bones, with wild eyes and an insanely large mouth. I don’t think I’ve seen him before in the palace. The Intendant should choose our valets more carefully, this one looks like a downtown thief.

I move to take the envelope, but the lad drops it, did I see him smile?

 

He drops it, grabs my sleeve instead, pulling me towards him with sheer rage, and I don’t see the dagger in his other hand until the blade pierces my right side.

 

My teacup shatters on the paved ground with a tiny, desperate sound.

Pain rips my breath in pieces, my guts shaking in spasms.

I hear a broken cry, and that must have been me.

 

-“ _That’s for D’Epernon, filthy snake!_ ” the valet shouts.

 

The dagger makes a disgusting wet noise, somewhere below my waist, as he pulls it out of me in one sharp twist. My vision blurs, God, how could I have been so careless? I want to step away, but my right leg is shuddering. I want to breathe, lord above, I just want to breathe. But agony has stolen the very air out of my lungs, all I can do is gasp.

The man raises the dagger again, this time aiming higher. The blade is nothing more than a furtive light in the dark, but the man’s face is clear enough, my own death written on his furious features.

 

Oh no, not you, not now. My work isn’t done, and you don’t even have a name, you worthless pawn.

I know I’ll pay the price someday, but not you.

 

 _Not now_.

 

The blade dives towards my heart and I move aside with a loud cry, my hand gripping my wound. Am I bleeding? I can’t feel anything. The man growls, spinning around to stab again, and this time my leg gives up on me. Please, no.

I fall into a thick parterre of rosebush with nothing more than a whimper, and all I can see are blurred patches of darkness. My head is spinning, do I even breathe? The valet spits something about my prayers, no, not like that.

Please, not now.

 

Something breaks in the distance. Was it wood? Sounded like glass, why would I care.

The enraged man lunges at me, his dagger held high, and I grab his armed wrist with both my hands, oh, I _am_ bleeding after all. He grunts, the blade suspended three inches from my throat, and God, why did you make me so weak?

Both my hands won’t be enough.

 

Please not like that, not like a wild dog in a dark alley, not over a trifle as d’Epernon.

My work isn’t done yet.

France still needs me.

_Maybe Jean does too._

 

Someone roared, I see a flash of dark brown and teeth, and the valet is swept away from me with a muffled gasp. He is sent rolling on the ground, dropping his blade into darkness, and two forms are now twisting and fighting in the alley. I try and stand up, my skin torn and bruised by the sharp bushes, and as I limp away from the parterre with a low moan of pain, I see a whirl of that blue fabric I know so well in the confused fight.

Jean.

 

Oh, Lord, _Jean._

 

The valet is fighting with everything he has, but he’s no match for Treville. Straddling his chest, the captain viciously punches the man’s face, twice, four times, and I wince as I hear the bones break. With one hand still clasping his throat, Jean pulls away and draws his gun.

 

-“ **Let him live!** ” I shout. “I’ll make him talk!”

But I fear my sentence only ends in a moan, agony in my guts sending hot-red sparks up to my throat.

I try to catch my breath, fail, and fall back on my knees, struggling to keep my eyes open.

Jean turns around for one second, panicked, and opens his mouth to ask something. The valet seizes his last chance and strikes him on his temple with the sharp side of a broken tile he must have found under his hand. Treville growls like a bear, releases the man’s throat, and collapses sideways upon the paving stones of the alley. The man stands up and stumbles away, but the Captain has seen too many fights to give up now. He shakes his head, blood dripping down his temple to his mouth, and spins around on the floor, knocking the valet down with his right leg. The man falls in the rosebush not one yard from where I was, and lets out a strange yelp, shaking once or twice.

 

Nothing more.

Jean, panting and livid, gets up in a few dizzy moves and violently grabs the man’s hair to haul him on his feet. The man doesn’t react, and never will. His dagger is sticking out of his chest in an impossible angle, planted right into his heart.

 

-“Hell, what were the _odds_ of that bastard falling right into his…” Treville hisses with a long string of curses as he drops the dead man, who crumbles at my feet like a rag doll.

 

He turns to me, then, and God, all that blood on his face. I let out a small cry of anguish, reaching out to him, but he slaps my hand out of his way as he starts inspecting me.

 

-“I’m fine.” I mutter, but he just growls dangerously, lifting my other hand away from my wound and cursing some more.

 

-“Fine, right?” He sneers in cold anger. “You’ve got a _punctured gut_ , you idiot.”

 

 

-“Do I?” I breathe.

 

My eyes are half blind, and pain is all I can feel, but I still graze his injured temple with my fingertips, checking how deep that nasty cut goes, because I am said to be persistent, and those rumors underestimate me widely. Only when I find nothing to worry about I sigh heavily, allowing my body to shut down, piece by piece. I close those useless eyes, drop my hands on my knees, and slump against him with a whimper.

-“Armand ?” He calls out, distressed. “ **Armand, stay with me**!”

 

 

I’m not going anywhere, my dear Jean. I’ll just sleep for a while, if you don’t mind.

Maybe when I’ll wake up, I’ll have another cup of tea. I can’t remember why I couldn’t finish the last one.

 

I'll only remember waiting for your shadow through the high windows of the Louvres, and the smell of spice in the evening breeze.

 

 

If you don’t mind.

 

 

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The four physicians of the Court are still praising themselves on their admirable stitching, cleaning their hands with clear water and sage, when the doors of my chambers bang open for the King.

I see his concerned face and smile as soothingly as I can, but I also get a glimpse of the tight pack of courtesans behind him and flinch. God, have mercy, my sheets haven’t been cleaned yet, there is blood all over them, and I must look like I’m dying. They’d be _unbearably pleased_.

Louis, for once, stops and stares long enough to understand, and has the whole crowd dismissed; only gesturing for one of them to come in with him.

 

I feared it would be Villeneuve from the Council, an old friend of D’epernon, or even Bernard himself, as I couldn’t make a single move against him with my only witness dead by unholy misfortune. I thought maybe d’Orleans, who hates my guts with every breath he takes, or worse, the Queen.

 

But he comes in with Treville, and I let go of a shaking breath.

 

 

Louis strides to my side, grabs my hands, kisses them both, inquiring about that assassin found in the Queen’s gardens. Five yards behind his back, my beloved Jean, a thick bandage around his head, his stance humble, having carefully chosen a safe, noncommittal place between my bed and my desk, is biting his lips in trepidation and worry.

 

-“We had the body searched, but nothing has been found, except the uniform he stole.” The King sates, bitterness in his clenched jaw. “Can you believe that, Cardinal? Assassins walk freely in my Queen’s gardens and no one can tell me who hired them!”

 

 _Oh I can_. And I would, if I had a single piece of evidence to strengthen my charge against your brother-in-law. But as I have none, I’ll just make sure Bernard knows his mercenary spoke his name to me before he died, that should scare him away from further trouble.

 

I smile again, searching for the King’s eyes so he can see the serenity in mine. He does, and the tension in his shoulders drop a little. I softly gesture towards the heavens above, and whisper in that low voice I know he always listens to:

-“God has His reasons for every trial he puts on our paths, Your Majesty. I am confident we will find a way to ensure this never happens again.”

 

Louis’s face brightens up with one of those childish, unroyal smiles I never could make him loose. He still sweeps a darkened stare upon my bloodied sheets and sighs.

 

-“God should be careful with _your_ trials, Cardinal. Someone tries to kill you every two years, now, and I’m always afraid the next one will be the last.”

 

I chuckle, shrugging his concern away, murmuring a blessing and signing his forehead. That may be one of the two or three physical touches we’re allowed to have by the protocol of State, and it always lightens Louis’ mood.

 

It still doesn’t fail this time.

The King cheers up, getting up with a proud smile and reaching out to Jean:

 

-“Fortunately the Captain of my Musketeers wasn’t far! You can always rely upon the loyalty, the bravery and the skills of my best soldiers!”

 

Jean humbly bows, wincing as he straightens up. Louis claps his back, and that may not have been the wisest thing to do, as my poor Jean pales and exhales sharply.

-“You were lucky Captain Treville was on his way to your apartments to discuss the safety of the Dutch ambassador!” Louis claims joyfully.

 

I give Jean a pointed look, my eyebrows shooting up in mock amazement. The safety of the Dutch Ambassador indeed? The one who came into the Louvres with his own guard of _fifty men_?

Treville bites his lips again, his bright eyes looking away for a while. The excuse is absolutely mediocre, and wouldn’t hold a careful look, but thank God, Louis isn’t a man for careful looks.

 

Soon enough, the King is called outside my apartments by the relentless horde of parasites he has to spend his life with, and as he walks out with a last word of comfort, I tell him once more my life is devoted to his service.

 

If he only knew how sincere I am.

 

 

 

He leaves, the physicians in his shadow, and once we’re alone, Jean is able to wait for exactly ten seconds. No more. After that, he rushes to the door, locks it tight, and runs back to me with a quiet resolve in his worried face. Now, what’s gotten into him?

-“Jean?”

 

He doesn’t reply, he never was the talkative type.

 

He throws his hat on the floor, lays down his weapons on the dirty sheets, lifts one knee on the bed, careful not to touch my wounded side, and grabs my face with his strong, yet frozen hands.

He looks at me for a few heartbeats, his gaze intense with feeling, pent-up relief and exhaustion, and I prepare a sentence or two, something sweet, to ease his torment. I don’t have time to say them, he never was the listening type.

 

 

He kisses my dry lips with focus and patience, exploring my mouth with a raw grunt of pleasure, his fingers sliding up to lose themselves into my hair. He kisses me and he doesn’t stop, frenzied, hungry.

I must beg at some point, pushing slightly against the thick leather on his chest, because I fear if he goes on, I might faint again.

He pulls apart, panting, his eyes glassy and blurred, and I smile at how handsome he is, wild and fierce as virtuous men can be. My soldier, my knight. The reflection of God’s face into the black mud of sin my life has become.

 

_Pure sunlight for the filthy snake I am._

 

 

 

He gently wipes my lips with his thumb, a dreamy gaze upon my face, and breathes with a frown:

 

-“Be careful who you throw into exile, jail or disgrace, Armand. I won’t always be there.”

 

I kiss his fingertips as they pass by and whisper with more faith than I ever had for any kind of holy book:

 

 

 

 

 

-“Yes you will.”

 

 

 

 


End file.
